


Chess

by blackkat



Series: 64 Damn Prompts [14]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Humor, M/M, Romance, Seduction FAIL, crackish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:42:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The plan was flawless. The only thing that Urahara had forgotten to account for in his seduction of Kurosaki Ichigo was, it seemed, Kurosaki Ichigo himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chess

It was as perfectly planned as the greatest chess match, every move orchestrated to the last detail, every possible variation or deviation mapped out. He had prepared for every outcome and calculated the best possible odds of success, charting a course straight for sweet, sweet victory.

The plan was flawless.

The only thing that Urahara had forgotten to account for in his seduction of Kurosaki Ichigo was, it seemed, Kurosaki Ichigo himself.

Ichigo was his _secretary_ , Urahara thought, slouching low in his chair—and he was most definitely _not_ pouting. Big boss-men of multi-million dollar corporations didn't _pout_. The redhead was supposed to be vulnerable to that kind of thing from his mysterious, dashing, just-out-of-reach-but-really-fucking-desirable boss. But Kisuke had exhausted all the tried-and-true methods of seduction, and the week wasn't even over yet. Nor did Ichigo show any signs of caving. He wasn't even oblivious, which, while annoying, Urahara could have excused.

Instead, he was _unaffected_ , and that was just not fair.

Urahara had spent quite a bit of money having twelve dozen red roses delivered.

Ichigo passed them out among the girls in the secretarial department.

Urahara had ordered the finest strawberry-filled chocolates from Switzerland.

Ichigo, it turned out, was deathly allergic to strawberries, and had to be rushed to the hospital to prevent him from going into anaphylactic shock.

The singing card had accidently been forwarded to the head of the Research and Development department, and now Mayuri was giving him really creepy looks.

The handwritten dinner invitation accidentally went through the shredder when Urahara left it (unknowingly) on top of a pile of junk mail.

Or maybe that was just the way Ichigo rejected all anonymous offers for fancy dinners. Urahara couldn't be completely certain.

And Urahara didn't even want to _think_ about the incident with the secret-rendezvous notice.

So. The classic measures had been exhausted. Urahara rubbed his hands together gleefully, mentally warned the world to brace itself, and brought out the big guns.

* * *

"I'm sure it's not as bad as you're making it out to be, Ichigo. Urahara's just a little…eccentric. You'll adjust."

Ichigo shot his best friend a withering glare. "Adjust? Rukia, I've been working here for _five years_ now. And he hasn't gotten any less freaky, I assure you. Besides, what would you know? You work for a different company."

Rukia just rolled her eyes, juggling the papers she carried so that she could have a free hand to smack him with. "My brother's been crushing on Urahara's best friend since he was in high school. He and Yoruichi—and, by extension, he and Urahara—spend a lot of time together. I know he's weird, but—"

"Weird?" Ichigo interrupted in disbelief. " _Weird?_ Rukia, he's been sending me _flowers_. He's trying to get into my _pants_ by killing me with strawberries."

"And they're very nice pants, too," Rukia said approvingly. "I guess it's true that gay men really _do_ have fashion sense."

Ichigo rolled his eyes at her in return. "Uh, Rukia? Have you _seen_ Renji lately?"

The woman winced, opening the door to Ichigo's private office. "Right. Never mind. But really, it can't be…that…bad…"

She trailed off in dumbfounded horror, and she and Ichigo stared at the very naked Urahara Kisuke splayed out on top of Ichigo's desk, a bowl of chocolate sauce and another of whipped cream sitting conveniently at his elbow.

It was a tossup to say which of the three looked more horrified.

While Rukia was busy gaping and being suddenly very, _very_ glad that she worked for another company, and Kisuke was trying his hardest not to think about the stapler digging into a very uncomfortable spot, Ichigo wasted no time picking up the phone and quickly dialing one of the departments.

"Yes, security?" he said. "This is Kurosaki Ichigo, on the twelfth floor? There's a naked guy on my desk, and he won't leave."

Rather than face being dragged naked through the building by his own security officers, Kisuke collected his clothes from the floor and slinked back to his office.

Ichigo called in the janitor and made sure that his desk was bleached three times before he got back to work.

* * *

On Yoruichi's advice, Urahara dropped the smart business suit and dressed casual, took his least flashy car, and went to pick Ichigo up from work for a nice, low-key dinner at a simple local restaurant. He made it halfway to the twelfth floor before he spotted Ichigo come barreling down the stairs. Ichigo caught sight of him, too, and Kisuke opened his mouth to interject with a smooth offer of dinner.

Before he could get the words out, though, he found himself loaded with three bags of trash, one of recycling, and several large boxes of old batteries.

"Finally," Ichigo said, already past Urahara and heading down the stairs. "Did the old janitor not give you his schedule before he quit? If you're going to be his replacement, you might want to ask him about that."

Urahara was left alone on the stairwell with his bags, staring mournfully after the most perfect ass the world had ever known.

The man attached to it thought he was a janitor when he wore casual clothes.

Life hated him.

So, apparently, had Yoruichi when she picked out his outfit.

* * *

They were in Urahara's office, talking about strictly business-related matters. Urahara thought he was being rather spectacularly well behaved, especially when faced with god of temptation that was his orange-haired secretary in a suit. Even if he _was_ just the _tiniest_ bit inside Ichigo's personal space.

"And the meeting with Senbonzakura Inc. has been moved to Monday. You'll want to bring—" Ichigo cut himself off and took a wary step back. "Urahara, you need to stop that."

"Stop what?" Kisuke asked innocently, sidling closer again. So what if there were only three inches of space between them? At least it was there.

Apparently, Ichigo didn't agree. He took another step back. "So that's not you?"

"Nope." Kisuke matched his retreat.

Ichigo's eyes narrowed, and Kisuke was only able to feel the vaguest stirrings of fear underneath the overwhelming, " _Oh, that's hot_ ," that was ringing through his brain—which, considering, was probably not the best reaction, as his secretary was known to make fully grown men tremble and cry when he got pissed.

"Then I need to tell whoever's groping my ass to _stop. Right now_. Before they get kicked through a door by their balls."

Kisuke hurriedly withdrew his hand. "Oh, my. Yes, do tell them. I have, uh. Work. Goodbye!"

He scampered, and Ichigo rolled his eyes, refraining from calling after him to point out that all of his work was in his office. Which he had just left. Idiot.

* * *

Ichigo staggered into his apartment much later, feeling as though he had been run over by a small caravan of eighteen-wheelers. The air was full of the smell of pasta and fresh tomato sauce, and he paused in the hall to breathe it in, leaving him feeling a little more human.

"Hello, honey, how was your day?"

The redhead just barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the question. "Well, my creepy stalker-boss has been trying—and failing—to get into my pants all week. But other than that? Peachy."

Kisuke didn't pout, where he leaned against the doorway to the kitchen. "Well, if you'd let me back into bed, I wouldn't be this desperate. So it's your fault."

One orange eyebrow (of doom, Kisuke knew from experience) went up. "Have you thought about your actions?"

Kisuke was _not_ pouting. "Yes."

"And?"

He heaved a dramatic sigh. "I'm sorry. Now can we have sex?" He _was not pouting_. Or whining.

Throwing his hands up in frustration, Ichigo turned on his heel and stalked into their bedroom. " _No_. You're still sleeping on the couch."

The door slammed hard enough to rattle in its frame.

Kurosaki Ichigo, Kisuke thought, sinking morosely onto the couch, really had no respect for a well-plotted game of chess.


End file.
